


This is How I Want to Love You

by dynamicsymmetry



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, Femdom, Masturbation, Menstruation Kink, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Period Sex, Smut, kinda femdom anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-02 22:37:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4076365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dynamicsymmetry/pseuds/dynamicsymmetry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the group and on the run again, finding Alone Time is just about impossible. When it's possible: suddenly, the unexpected. And the unexpected? Not always a bad thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is How I Want to Love You

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another for Bethyl Smut Week. 
> 
> I wasn't sure I was gonna write this. Then I wrote it. I think it came out pretty well, for something I was initially unsure about. Here it is. 
> 
> It is _heavily_ inspired by [this masterpiece](http://unfbadger.tumblr.com/post/118005664407/were-going-hunting-they-said-wouldnt-be-gone) (omg so nsfw). Like, in my head it's the story that goes with that art.
> 
> I should note that this is vaguely set sometime in the future after Beth has miraculously returned but Something Bad Happened Oh No and TF is no longer with the ASZ. I should also note that when I got to the end of this I thought for a second and was like "hey, I think this is not the first time I've written in this universe." So you may, if you wish, consider this a kind of unofficial sequel to [this.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3747610) Not necessarily, but I kind of think it might be. 
> 
> Title: ["Rhythm of Devotion"](https://youtube.com/watch?v=vWbFdICIpJE) by Sisyphus.

There are all kinds of problems they _could_ have.

Daryl has never done relationships. Not just rarely; _never_. And it's not just because of the kind of life he was wandering through prior to the Turn. Even if it had been possible, he's not at all sure he would have wanted to. Pretty sure he wouldn't, actually. Because there just wasn't anyone. No one he could see himself with in that way. No one he ever wanted to spend that much time with. No one he wanted to get to know.

No one at all.

But he knows enough to be aware that relationships intrinsically come with problems attached. That there are arguments over stupid shit, and sometimes not so stupid shit, that there are incidents involving mistrust and suspicion, that there are conflicts over misunderstandings and mismatched expectations, and people do decide that, despite previous assumptions, they can't stand each other. That people fall out of love.

That was before the Turn. And as it turns out, the biggest relationship problem for him and Beth - aside from her appearing to have died for several months - lies in the task of finding the time and space to be alone together.

On the run, you eat and sleep and live on top of each other. They both know this. For a while it seemed like they wouldn't have to, but of course that never lasts. And when it all collapsed, he and Beth were still in the process of understanding this Thing between them, exploring it - barely even touches yet, kisses, slow and hesitant and more than a little awkward, but there's no time or space for that on the run, and the group being swallowed once again by the wild outside accelerated their timetable by about a factor of ten.

All at once they were hurling themselves at each other, desperate. Knowing so well that she could die, die for real, that they both could. Either one of them. Anyone. That was true even before but they were mostly able to ignore it. Probably unwise. Either way, they're here now, and all they want is to be together, _together_ , all hands and fingers, tongues, teeth, crashing, sweat-slick bodies and her wet hungry cunt, and his cock dripping he wants her so bad.

Sometimes when things are at their strangest and when his mind is feeling daring and just a touch perverse, he wonders about whether this could even have happened if she hadn't been shot, if he hadn't been gutted because of it, if they hadn't been ripped apart the way they were. He wonders if they would have been desperate enough. Because he's never wanted anyone the way he wants her.

He's beginning to realize, looking back, that he never really wanted anyone at all.

So everything is marked by desperation - painful, wonderful, burning for and with her, coupled with the quiet joy of simply being with her. Not even necessarily talking, not doing anything. Just _being_. But they both want more, they want to _fuck_ , and they can't find the time or the space, and just fucking _forget_ about being _alone_.

They do what they can. They use their hands a lot. Lying in camp with her, or in whatever ruined building they're all holed up in, and when real distance isn't possible, taking a spot in a dark corner to wrap themselves up together, making do with a blanket. His hand slipping between her legs and finding her so wet, making her wetter, muffling the squelch when he presses a finger into her. Her biting her lip as he works her clit, lifting her and carrying her to the edge, and that bite tensing into real pain as she cuts off her own cry and swallows it back down. Sometimes his fingers in her mouth, his palm over her lips, his strangled panting in her ear as she rolls her ass frantically against him.

Her hand on his cock, tight and warm and gliding over him, learning how to do it so she drives him completely insane. Thumb stroking his underside, over his silky skin, discovering how he likes it when she tugs his foreskin back, reveals him, swiping over his head once it's slicked with his precome. Pumping her fist, squeezing so he can fuck it, so his hips are jerking and snapping and wild. Daryl can come in complete silence, every sound subsumed in violent shudders and his face jammed into the hollow of her throat.

Barely yards away from everyone. Daryl is pretty sure they know what's going on those times and they're good enough to make it a polite fiction that they don't.

It's all right. It's so much better than nothing, gathering her up in his arms after, feeling the tremors run through her as she comes back down, trembling against her too. Kissing her so deep, tongue thrusting slow against hers. It's better than all right. It's good. It's very good.

But it's just not enough.

So sometimes they can't stand it anymore, and they just go ahead and say _fuck it_ and find ways to make it happen.

~

It's so stupid to go do this in the woods. It's not, strictly speaking, safe. Generally walkers are relatively easy to notice and avoid provided you're paying a modicum of attention. They're not especially quiet and they're not especially subtle in their hunting. They don't hunt at all. You're awake, you listen, you stay on your toes, you'll usually be okay. Daryl is comfortable in the woods, even now. He doesn't particularly worry. They all learned a long time ago that there are plenty worse things out there than walkers.

But it's still stupid, because like this, doing this, it's _sort of hard to pay attention._ They're supposed to be hunting and neither he nor - he's certain - she expected to actually do any hunting here. Or maybe. Maybe after. No one is starving and all things considered it's not really a priority.

This is. And less than fifteen minutes into the deeper woods - denser stands of trees and higher brush here and there but not all that much in the way of actual cover - she startles him, grabbing him by the belt before he can get a hold on her, and he just has time to unshoulder the crossbow before she's whirling him around and shoving him backward with a strength that other people might be surprised by but which doesn't surprise him in the least. His back hits the trunk of a tree - the one he was thinking about slamming her up against - and he was hard almost as soon as they got away from the others but now his blood is surging, boiling through him, swelling his cock and making his balls throb. It's a hot day, the air thick and moist, and her skin is just as slick as his as she grips his bare arms and launches herself up and closes her teeth on his bottom lip.

A groan rises in him, pushes into her mouth with a smile. Needy girl. When she wants him she wants him so _bad_ , and he used to find it bewildering, used to find it almost inconceivable that _anyone_ would feel like that about him, but here she is, licking into his mouth, their teeth colliding and her breath coming in short gasps. His cock is trapped between them, nudging at her belly just above her mound, and he can tell the moment she feels it because she moans softly and jerks her hips against him, and he feels her teeth again. Little wild thing. He nearly laughs, except then it's all his own moan as she grinds him, undulating, groping for his hand and dragging it up, making him palm her breast.

"Want you," she hisses, scraping her teeth lower and across his jaw; it bends something in him and his head falls back against the rough bark, a higher sound catching in his throat. "It's been... _God_." He's actually not sure she's ever been like this. It's over a week since they were able to do anything with anything but fingers, but he's not sure that's all it is. She's so hot against him, a little dancing sunstorm, _in heat,_ and even if by virtue of some insanity he wanted to deny her there's no fucking way he could.

"I know." He squeezes her breast, rough, closing his thumb and forefinger on her nipple and pinching hard. "Give you whatever the fuck you want, Beth, _shit_."

Her hands abruptly slide into his hair, tangle and tug and then yank at him, and he catches a glimpse of her face half cast in a shaft of relentless summer sun, a wicked grin curving her full, perfect lips.

"Get on your knees."

It takes him less than two seconds to process it, process her tone - low, insistent, leaving absolutely no room for him to argue - and to understand what she wants, and then he's framing her hips with his hands and turning them, her back against the tree now, and dropping onto the moss and the leaf litter with spit already flooding his mouth.

First time he tasted her it broke his brain, that anything could taste so fucking good. First time he ever did that to anyone, and when she came all over his face he came with his cock in his hand, wrenched and helpless, his sob lost in the folds of her cunt. Knew after that: he would do anything to do that again, do it as long and as hard as she wanted, do it until she couldn't take it anymore. If they ever had the time, which they don't. But he has this now, and her hands are still clenched in his hair as he fumbles at her jeans, just about breaking her zipper in his sheer desperation and dragging everything down her hips, shivering from his core when her pretty little bush comes into view.

"Daryl- God, yeah." She twitches her hips forward, spreads her legs - stops when it becomes apparent that she's not going to be able to spread them as much as she wants to, and she untangles one hand from his hair and clumsily tries to bend, shoving and kicking her boots at the same time and cursing under her breath.

He pushes back enough to help her, pulling them off her, tossing her jeans and panties aside to join them, and then it's all her long, graceful legs, creamy skin and soft blond hair from her ankles to the tops of her thighs. He's never been entirely sure why some men seem to be so horrified by leg hair on women when he's always loved hers - maybe simply because it's _hers_ \- and he glides his hands up to her inner thighs and spreads her wider, leaning close to breathe her sweet, heady smell in.

And fuck, she's already soaking wet, beads of it caught in her pubic hair, making her lips glisten, and as he watches and she shifts to widen her stance even more a thicker bead of it gathers and drips from her in a long, shining strand, and he moves just in time to duck his head and catch it on his tongue.

God, he would drink her if he could. Just bottle it and fucking _drink_ it.

"C'mon," she's gasping, and suddenly she's yanking so hard on his hair that little sparks of pain explode at the edges of his vision. "Get in there, Daryl, you dirty sonofabitch, get in there right _now,_ get your goddamn tongue on me, make me _come_..."

She's got a mouth on her. He found that out early on. That's something else he wonders about. If that was true before, or if part of her was carved down and roughened, sloughing off whatever demureness and Good Girl manners remained from a world long gone.

Doesn't matter. He loves that mouth and he loves however she wants to use it.

She's yanking at him and he takes her direction: he _dives_ into her with his own mouth wide, hands tight on her hips and his tongue thrusting at her lips before he's even clamped down. He could do this delicately, he could take his time and really get her worked up and flowing into him, whining and calling him an asshole and bucking against his face, but it's not going to happen that way now. He goes at her with huge, broad strokes of his tongue, lapping at her like a dog, flicking her swollen clit as hard as he can, dipping the point in and trying to get it fully inside her though his tongue isn't long enough - and that will probably always be a source of disappointment to him, not exactly one he ever thought he'd have.

He'd fuck her with it if he could. He thinks about that sometimes. Images of her riding it like she rides his cock - the very few times they've been able to do that - and it's very distracting.

But right now nothing is distracting him. He can't use his tongue but he can use a finger and he rams one into her, pumping it and grinning against her bush when her muscles twitch and she lets out a soft little cry and rolls against him. The entire world is her, her sopping cunt and him making it even wetter, her smell, her heat, her hands pulling mercilessly at his hair and her lungs sucking shallow, rhythmic gasps - almost his name.

Except then he tastes something else. Something new.

Yet somehow not unfamiliar.

Metallic, faintly. Not at all unpleasant. Copper, he thinks, copper and iron, sweet but not in the way she's normally sweet, and even slicker, a denser kind of wet. But he can hardly breathe like this, she's holding him so firm against her, and he pushes back just for a second, heaving in air-

And stops, staring.

She's been pretty much pouring into and onto him, so he's not surprised to see his hand wet to the wrist. What he _is_ surprised to see is his hand streaked and smeared with red, and he feels progressive waves of confusion, confused _fear_ \- and then realization when it comes to him what it is.

She's frozen too, her hands gone loose, and when he looks up at her she's gazing down at him, blue eyes wide and her lips parted. The same progression appears to be passing across her face, only it seems locked at _fear,_ or something way too much like it. Apprehension. Anxiety. Maybe a couple of other A words he can't think of right now.

She looks like she's sure something is wrong.

Her hands slip free of his hair and she takes a trembling breath. "Daryl, I'm... Oh, God, I'm sorry, I didn't know I was... I didn't..."

She hasn't in a while. He knows that. He knows the likely reasons why - stress, lack of consistent nutrition, general wear and tear on her body more than is ideal - but apparently it wasn't over for good, and he slowly withdraws his hand and looks down at it again, all that smeared red, bright and shining in the sun. Beth is silent, and under his other hand he can feel that tremor in her voice making its way into the rest of her, and this is not at all what he wanted.

For her to feel like this. Look down at him and be sure that it's something she needs to apologize for. That he might be disgusted by it.

Look down at him and be sure that he'll want to stop.

Because he doesn't. He really doesn't. He knows it all in a rush, all at once. It's very strange, it's not something he ever thought about doing, not something he ever considered much at all, but now that he's here on his knees and her blood is in his mouth, all over his face, on his hand...

Yeah, he can see someone looking at this and thinking it's disgusting. Absolutely. But he licks his lips and tastes her sweet copper and iron, this thing that's so uniquely and essentially _her,_ something so deeply part of her, and as far as being disgusted goes...

He looks back up at her, brings his hand to his mouth, and slowly begins to lick his fingers clean.

Her gasp is both soft and sharp as a knife's edge, cutting through the air between them as her tremors coalesce into a single equally sharp shudder. And that's mostly it. She just keeps staring at him, her eyes huge and her mouth fallen loosely open, shock in every muscle and every feature.

"Oh my _God,_ Daryl."

His fingers slip out past his lips, his tongue chasing them, and he closes his eyes in what he knows will look like a kind of ecstasy, which is exactly what it is.

He can't imagine not worshiping her. He sees no reason why this shouldn't be or isn't included.

"I love it," he murmurs, and leans in again, not quite close enough to go back to work on her, and her face is the site of every iota of his hot, thrumming attention. "Beth... I want more. Gimme more."

She whimpers, gripped by another shudder and half closing her eyes. In spite of her obvious misgivings about this whole thing her hands have made their way back into his hair - as if she's not even aware of them - and now she tugs, not hard but hard enough to make it clear that her body wants it, even if her head isn't sure.

But he's going to wait. Until she wants it too. With all of her.

"Beth," he repeats softly and turns his head and nuzzles at her thigh, streaking blood there. If she lets him do this, he thinks vaguely, they're going to have to remember to clean up before they go back to the others, because this is going to get _messy_.

Her lips move, as if she's looking for something to say. Still uncertain. And he aches for her, abruptly desperate to prove it to her if he hasn't already, and he closes the last of the distance between them and kisses her - not her cunt but her bush, burying his face in her tight curls, nuzzling again. "Please," he whispers. "Fuck, Beth. I want it. Please."

When her hands tighten, he knows.

"Do it."

It's grating, close to a growl, and he wants to laugh - not at her but simply because it's so perfect, and she's perfect, and _this_ is perfect when he returns to her, taking her in, his tongue fluttering, going deep, working at and over and in her and his lips closing over her clit to suck it gently. She's back to what she was doing before, just as hungry, except for some reason now she seems even _hungrier_ , hands at the back of his head and shoving his face into her cunt. She's _drenched_ , dripping into him, and he doesn't think it's only her blood. It's a mixture, complex and _delicious,_ the juices of her arousal and her rich, warm flow.

Another few seconds and she starts to roll her hips again, humping at his face as waves of tension take her - tight-release and tight-release - and her moans tighten with it, higher and breathier, little ragged sobs. It's like a signal to him and he gives her his finger again, that squelch - the sound of him doing his job very well. She jerks, briefly clamps her thighs against the sides of his face as he starts to fuck her. Slowly, evenly. He knows how to get her right to the edge, and he knows exactly what it'll take to send her arcing over it, up and high and convulsing against him.

" _Fuck,_ " she hisses, and when he glances up he sees her whole body bent back into a lovely arch against the tree, the tendons standing out in her neck and her breasts pressing against the fabric of her shirt, her nipples rock hard and clearly visible. Then she curls sharply inward, one hand releasing him and groping for the trunk behind her.

Another few seconds and she arches again, teeth bared, and he knows she's close. Which is why what she says then isn't a surprise at all.

"Jerk yourself off. I... Oh, _shit_... Make yourself come for me, Daryl, do it with me. C'mon."

She gets as far as _jerk yourself off_ before he's ripping his fly open and dragging his cock free, and at the first couple of rough strokes precome swells and drips hot and sticky down his knuckles. He groans against her, caught by his own full-body shudder, and he doesn't think she's going to have to hold off all that long. His tongue settles on her clit as he strokes himself faster, licking her and fucking her with the same rhythm he's found, and it all melts together into her harsh groans, the bright stinging in his scalp, the clench of her cunt and the pulses of pleasure flooding into him from his own hand, and her taste, her _taste,_ oh God, her taste, because he's just loving it more every second.

"Daryl, I'm gonna..." Her moan twists into nothing for a second or two and she lifts her leg, hooks it over his shoulder, spreading herself wide and snapping her body upward. " _God,_ I'm gonna come, you better... you better _now_ -"

And her words spiral up into a long, strained wail as she grinds against his face, _gushing_ into his mouth as wave after wave crashes into her, and he puts every last bit of his strength into it - his lips, tongue on her clit, his finger so deep in her, his hand furiously jerking his cock, and he is, he does, spurting onto the ground and his fist and muffling his own cry in her soaked, bloody, _glorious_ cunt.

They both go so loose so fast and so simultaneously, dropped just as hard as they plunged upward, that he's not sure why they don't just fall down.

She does sag, panting, heaving, half supporting herself with her hand braced against him, her head leaning back and her mouth wide. "Holy Christ, Daryl." She giggles, sudden and sounding just a bit incredulous, trembling all over as an aftershock takes her. "Holy _Christ_."

He almost tumbles backward, catches himself on one hand, the other at his mouth again. Bloody. All bloody. It might just be on his face and hand, but he feels - he's _sure_ \- some of it drip from his chin, so regardless of whether or not what she gave him is confined to a couple of places, there's a _fuck_ of a lot of it.

Without thinking, without intending to, he's licking the blood off his fingers again. Greedy.

Apparently he has a new favorite thing.

He lifts his gaze to her, to her face, and she's watching him with a strange little smile pulling at her mouth. One of her hands slides back into his hair, combing through it, gentle.

"You're a mess."

"I know." He manages to focus on her - on her own mess, smeared everywhere between her legs. Her inner thighs, her pubic hair - he managed to get a few streaks just above it, bright red on her pale skin. "Not the only one."

She arches a brow, glances down, and sighs. "Oh, shit. What're we-"

He shrugs and tries not to laugh. "Wipe off with clothes, kill somethin', use that blood as cover, I dunno. We're supposed to be huntin' anyhow."

Beth cocks her head. "Were you plannin' this or somethin'?"

"Yeah, I totally knew it was gonna be today." He wipes his hand off on his pants, zips himself up and slowly gets to his feet, knees stiff and protesting, and starts to bend down to retrieve her jeans.

But she stops him, hand on his arm. He looks up at her, quizzical- and there's that smile again.

She lays her small, cool hands against the sides of his face, pushes up on her toes and kisses him.

Maybe he shouldn't be, but he's surprised. Her tongue slipping into him, stroking over his, her quiet moan vibrating against him - what she's looking for. Pulling back to lick at his lips, the corners of his mouth, swiping warm and slightly rough over his cheeks, and he twitches and breathes a laugh when she flicks the tip of his nose.

He has no idea if she's actually cleaned him. But it feels like she has.

When she lowers herself she's grinning, flushed, eyes glittering. "It's not so bad, actually."

"No, it ain't." He tips his head forward, brow against hers, cleaner hand against the side of her neck. Slightly blurry, he can see her smile softening and warming even more, and she closes her hand around his wrist.

He wants her to understand. Even if he doesn't completely get it himself.

"I love all of you," he whispers. " _All_ of you, Beth."

She lets out a slow breath, and it might be his imagination but he thinks it's shaking, just a little. Then she nods, still smiling, and kisses the corner of his mouth.

"Should get goin'."

"Yeah." But he pulls back with intense reluctance, and as she starts to get back into her clothes he picks up the bow and slings it over his shoulder again. They never have enough time or enough space. He's realistic enough about this to realize that it's possible that they never will.

Though he's also not sure what would ever be _enough_.

"Daryl?"

He shakes himself out of his head, focuses on her. "Yeah?"

"Uh." What moves across her face might be embarrassment. But if it is, there isn't much of it. She nods down at herself. "I'm still, um..."

 _Oh_. "Oh." He thinks for a few seconds, then reaches into his pocket, holds out his bandanna. He offers her a faintly apologetic shrug. He knows it's far from ideal. But they're all used to making do with what they have.

She takes it, and she gives him another iteration of that soft, warm smile. "Thanks."

He shrugs again. "Hey. At least it's red."

And Beth laughs a good bit harder at that than it deserves.

Never enough time and space, no. But what they can grab for and seize and take can still be pretty goddamn amazing.


End file.
